


Best Served Cold

by Flyting



Series: Words [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied Cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zelena has a few <i>creative</i> ideas for punishing Gold after his failed escape attempt.</p><p>Set during S3. Goes with 'Words'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Served Cold

_In his dreams, he follows the sound of voices into the kitchen of his Storybrooke house. Belle and his son are both standing there in the watery morning light, chatting quietly over their mugs as breakfast sizzles on the stove. Belle is wearing his robe. Baelfire’s hair is sticking up in tufts, exactly the way it used to when he was a boy._  
  
_“Morning, pops. Coffee?”_  
  
_He feels the familiar pricking of tears behind his eyes. Shakes his head. “This isn’t real. You… you’re dead,” he says to the sleepy-eyed figure of his son._  
  
_“Yeah, well you don’t look that great first thing in the morning yourself,” Bae says, turning to pour himself another cup._  
  
_“I saw you die.”_  
  
_“Sweetheart, no one’s dead,” Belle says, abandoning her mug on the counter to stroke his shoulders comfortingly. “You must have had a nightmare. Neal’s right here, we’re all fine. It was just a bad dream…”_  
  
He wakes to a rattle of wire and crockery, cold and stiff on his pallet of dirty straw.  
  
“Wake up. I’ve brought breakfast.”  
  
“I’m not hungry.”  
  
“Do we have to play this game every time?” Zelena sighs, sliding the tray under the door. “It’s like you think I’m going to poison you.”  
  
There is a playful edge to her voice, baiting him to respond in kind. He doesn’t have it in him to reply. If he closes his eyes again, he could be back there in his kitchen with Belle and Bae. He isn’t sure which hell is worse. But he uncurls and pulls the tray towards him before she can order him to. It’s the coward’s option; surrender and live to fight another day.  
  
Breakfast is another meat pie. He’s starting to despise them.  
  
Normally she leaves in the mornings after dropping the tray. Today she lingers, watching him with a hungry expression as he pulls the crust apart with his hands and prods unenthusiastically at some sort of unidentifiable lumpy meat in sauce. Her fingers curl through the wire bars of his cage and for a moment he thinks of snapping them, one by one.  
  
She waits until he’s taken a bite.  
  
“Good?” she prompts.  
  
He chews, swallows. “Not particularly, no.”  
  
“Someone’s rude this morning. What’s the matter? Wake up on the wrong side of the cage?” To his surprise, she chuckles.  
  
He takes another bite and doesn’t respond, playing dead in the hopes that she’ll get bored and go away. Eats slowly and methodically, staring at a point near her shoe.  
  
“You know, they buried your son this morning.”  
  
It takes some effort to swallow what’s in his mouth, but he manages. It sits like a stone in his hollow belly.  
  
“I’m through,” he says hoarsely, pushing the tray back under the door and wiping his hands on his trousers.  
  
She nudges it back with a foot, her eyes bright with glee. “No, you’re not. Finish it. Every last bite.”  
  
And he can tell that she’s got her hand on the dagger under her coat, because there’s that familiar ache of his limbs wanting to respond of their own accord. Like he’s sharing his body with something else, something slavishly desperate to obey. There’s no fight in him today. He gives in to it, retreats back into his own head and lets it feed his body for him.  
  
He is aware of her voice, mockingly sympathetic, “I know how important he was to you.”  
  
He will break her fingers, all ten, one by one. Then her arms and legs. Then he’ll heal her and do it again. Over and over again until the only words she remembers are apologies.  
  
“That’s why I went down to the cemetery after they were done. I thought I might bring you back a present. A little… part of him that you could hold on to.”  
  
She smirks, knowing the barb has hit its mark. His mind grinds to a stop, like a broken clockwork, refusing to acknowledge the implication. He knew better than anyone what she was capable of, but this was… unthinkable.  
  
“What did you do?” he rasps.  
  
“Oh, now you’re talking to me?” She drawls, playful now that she knows she has his attention.  
  
“ _Zelena_ -“  
  
“Miseryguts. Are you this rude to everyone who tries to do you a favor? I went down there thinking you might want a little piece of dear, departed Baelfire to keep close- brighten the place up a bit. But then I remembered that there’s nothing quite so comforting as a home cooked meal.”   
  
He looks slowly from the half-eaten meat pie on his plate, with its lumpy, unidentifiable contents, to her fever-bright eyes, hoping to remember how to breathe. It isn’t. It can’t be. Even she wouldn’t-  
  
It takes him even longer to remember how to speak, and even then he can’t manage it without stammering, but he has to know.  “…What’s in this?”  
  
"Just something I dug up."  
  
He gags, nearly retching.  
  
“Eat it,” she says, mouth twisting into a cyanide-rictus grin.  
  
He fights it this time, stomach roiling, the tray rattling under his shaking hands _. No, no, no, he can’t- she can’t make him- he won’t- no, not this- please_  
  
The strain feels like it’s going to tear him to pieces. “Zelena, please,” he begs. He isn’t too proud to appeal to her affection for him. Not now, not this-  
  
She coos as the curse finally wins out, bending his rigid, protesting limbs to her will. “That’s it. Eat it. Swallow. Every last bite.”  
  
“Slowly- keep it down,” she adds soothingly, when he gags and nearly brings the whole mess back up. “Good boy.”  
  
He had promised himself early on that he wouldn’t let her see him broken. Appearance was all he had left, and he would not- could not- appear weak in front of her. He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. That promise is in tatters now, as he curls over on his side, trembling and breathing in great, shaky gasps that are nearly sobs.    
  
“I know, I know,” she says comfortingly, fishing the tray out with one hand under the door. “I don’t really care for veal either.” She sighs, “But it was what we had in the freezer. It’s not as if I could stop by the corner store. Perhaps next time you think about running away, you’ll remember this.”  
  
“And remember that I learned from the best,” she growls from the stairs, flipping the light switch on her way out and leaving him in darkness.


End file.
